A commotion—yelling and gunshots—erupted inside the house. This didn’t slow Sally. He pounded on the front door, shouting for Beaumont and saying, “It’s Sally Spiotto! I need help!” I didn’t slow down either. Mad as hell, I crossed the driveway as Beaumont ran out the door. He pushed past Sally but pulled up short when he saw me. Without thinking, I shot him in the chest, and he dropped to the ground.

Sally dashed inside and tried to close the door on me. I put my shoulder to it, forced it open, and stepped into a slaughterhouse, blood everywhere. Sally ran off, but my way was blocked by a body on the floor and a black biker with a short natural and a goatee bent over it with a knife. A redheaded white girl pointed a pistol at me. My hands are shaking now, recalling the scene, but in that instant I fired the .45 with no hesitation and got her in the head. Then the brother charged, and I shot him, too.

Another biker, a big Mexican, ran at me out of the shadows, and I fired once more, hitting him in the arm. He dropped the knife he was carrying but kept coming. I lost the .45 when he tackled me. He hooked his good arm around my neck, but I grabbed his hair, shifted my weight, and was able to flip him so we were both lying on our backs, me on top. I hammered him with my elbows, then grabbed for the knife sheathed on my leg. He got hold of it before I did and slipped out from under me. Sitting on my chest, he punched me in the face again and again and raised the blade.

Before he could finish me off, a gunshot sounded and a geyser of blood spouted from his forehead. He fell on me, dead weight, and when I pushed him off, I found myself looking down the barrel of a pistol held by a young white man, maybe twenty-two, twenty-three, with dark hair and eyes.

“Who are you?” he said.

“I came for Beaumont,” I told him.

“Where is he?”

“Out front. I shot him.”

“If you want to get out of here alive, we have to work together,” the kid said.

“I want to get out of here alive,” I said.

The young man—Jesse is his name, I know now—picked up my knife and said, “Stick this in Beaumont’s heart and bring him inside.”

Still rattled by the fact that I’d just killed two people and dazed by the beating I’d taken, I was happy someone else had a plan, happy to do as I was told. I grabbed the .45 too, and walked to the front door. Beaumont was already trying to crawl away.

“Wait,” he said, raising his hand.